Iggy rested his palm across his forehead and pressed hard as if he were checking himself for a fever. “Tomorrow is my eighteenth birthday. At least... I think it is…”
Robert stared at him. The man he saw in the cell looked quite older than a teenager, but the truth was, Robert had nearly nothing to reference. He had a daughter who would have just turned eighteen if she hadn’t been murdered as an infant. He imagined her youthful soft skin tanned from the sun and her soft baby brown hair long and flowing in the wind. Tall like her deceased mother with mysterious dark brown eyes. Beautiful and innocent. Although his imagination was all that he had, he still said, “you don’t look eighteen.”
Iggy shrugged his shoulders. “I’m infected. Why would I look my age?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Robert
